


On Broken Wings We Fly

by The_End_Of_All_Things



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Could lead to a multi chapter, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Poor Crowley (TM), no beta we die like men, of all kinds - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2020-06-03 07:38:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19459426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_End_Of_All_Things/pseuds/The_End_Of_All_Things
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley lead completely different lives.People can, though, find happiness in the unlikeliest of places.





	1. The Plan

Crowley and Aziraphale grew up in two different worlds. 

Aziraphale was an only child in a stable home. He had a mother and a father, both happy and healthy. His extended family was enormous, the type that could be found at the park each year for a grand family reunion. They were wealthy but grounded, classy but kind. They were the Picture Perfect Poster Family (TM). (Crowley had claimed this trademark for the Fell family exclusively, as he said that no other family fit it quite like the Fells did.)

When Aziraphale had come out as gay to his family, they were understanding and oh-so-happy that he was willing to share that part of himself with them. They'd gone out to dinner, chatted and laughed, and talked about the new rules for when Aziraphale had friends over. (Well, friend. The only person that had ever come more than once to Aziraphale's house was Crowley, but he knew they wanted him to branch out.)

He was happy with his home and with his family. What more could a person ask for?

Crowley's life couldn't have been more different. He lived in what could only be described as an abusive home where paint peeled in sections and the scent of cigarettes was inescapable for a good five blocks in any direction. Crammed into a tiny space with his drunken father and his brother Satan's child. His nephew. (His name wasn't really Satan, but that was what he was called in The House if you didn't feel like getting slapped upside the head.)

Satan was a topic that anyone who knew Crowley knew to stay away from. When his mother had disappeared a short time after he was born, his then-12-year-old-brother had been his savior. (Even if he hadn't known it.) He had long conversations about his mom and told his dad that she would turn up. He helped his father to care for Crowley and find goodness in his life. As the years went by this helped less and less. His father became angry and miserable. And with that, drunk and abusive.

Satan had been lucky. He looked like his father, a spitting image. He had managed to be overlooked in his father's eye many times. 

But Crowley, he was a spitting image of his mother. Fiery red hair, whiskey brown eyes, tall for his age and sharp facial features. It became obvious that his father hated him for it. The beatings started when he was four. All the bitterness his father had for their mother was taken out on the boy who looked exactly like her. 

Any remorse that Satan had for his brother was shown from afar. He didn't stand up for Crowley because he did not wish to suffer the same punishment. Maybe he would lend a hand in helping him with his bruises and scrapes, but empathy did not give way to action. Safely spectating this abuse for a year and a half before the name of the game changed.

Satan had a son. That was his game changing. Granted, the mother wanted nothing to do with it, but Satan begged her to keep it. Claimed that he knew he would be an amazing father. (Despite the fact that he did nothing whilst his kid brother was curled up on the floor sobbing.)

Satan kept this child a secret until he was done with high school. Not even Crowley had known. By now, the baby was nearly born and he was officially free to leave and raise it on his own. Crowley never got to say goodbye. One day he was there, the next day gone. He pretended he never did care very much.

That was the last that Crowley heard of his brother for quite some time. He began going to school, hiding his bruises, meeting new people. 

He met Aziraphale in first grade. The boy radiated peace and happiness. He plopped himself down next to Crowley at lunch, pulled out his bag, and started chatting away. There was a note in his lunchbox and freshly cut apple slices. He had carrots and a sandwich with grape juice. Crowley couldn't help but stare as the boy blabbered on. 

The boy eventually noticed Crowley gazing intensely at his food, and after a moment of consideration, pushed his carrots and half his sandwich toward the redhead. Crowley looked up at him, a confused tilt to his head.

The boy had smiled. "Go on, eat it. Never did like carrots, anyway." He paused for a second, but after getting no response carried on. "My name's Aziraphale. What's yours?"

Crowley hesitantly grabbed the carrots and opened the bag. "Crowley." He stated, and Aziraphale's returning smile had brightened his entire world.

They remained extremely close friends. They ran in different circles, but if they were being fair they ran in their own circle. Aziraphale knew not to ask about his parents, and Crowley knew not to mention it if he didn't want to talk about them.

Crowley hung around Aziraphale's house for as many hours of the day as he possibly could, slowly starting to drape over furniture whenever he was particularly comfortable, which happened to be only whenever Aziraphale was next to him. Aziraphale stayed away from his life, though, and he went home to all sorts of abuse and misery every day of the week. (Not that Aziraphale had a choice, he'd inquired many times as to Crowley's living arrangement but his friend had always evaded the topic.)

He was 11, in sixth grade, when social services had shown up at his door with a brown-haired boy named Adam and told his father that Satan had died in a car accident. Adam was to be taken into their home.

If Crowley was being honest, he appreciated the reprieve that Adam gave him. His father was now inexplicably mad at this five-year-old-kid that he took out his anger on exclusively.

It all changed when one day, Crowley came home from Aziraphale's house, and the second he opened the door he heard the soft thud of pain that he had heard so many times in his life.

What he saw flipped a switch in his brain. Adam was there, curled up on the floor. He wasn't crying or shaking, he sat there blankly and accepted what he had been dealt in life.

Crowley realized two things in that instant:

1\. The boy was intelligent. He could see it in the way his eyes fell on Crowley. Not begging or pleading, as if he understood that no help would come.  
2\. If he didn't help this poor kid, that made him no better than Satan. 

He decided that he wasn't going to let this kid have the life that he'd had. No one deserves that. 

He ran up and shoved his father, ignoring the strong smell of booze and cigars and the fact that he was dwarfed in the man's shadow. He swallowed his fear and stared him down. "You testin' me, boy?" 

Crowley stood unflinching, and Adam took his chance. He scrambled to the room that he and Crowley shared and slammed the door.

Later, when his father had passed out and he was in significantly more pain, he slipped into his room and into bed, not bothering to change.

It was quiet for several moments, until a soft "thanks" drifted to his ears.

"Anytime."

▫️◽️◻️◽️▫️

Crowley became significantly more protective of Adam after that day. He took him with him to Aziraphale's often times, and he always made sure the boy had enough food to eat. Aziraphale found many aspects of this endearing, though he wouldn't dare say it out loud.

Adam stayed with him for as long as possible until he formed his own friends. The Them. One of The Them lived in the same neighborhood as Aziraphale, a feisty young girl named Pepper. The other two, Brian and Wensleydale, were spread out in a different part of the city. After having met them, Crowley agreed to let him spend time with them by himself, but that didn't mean Crowley didn't have a strict set of rules in place.

"ALWAYS follow the rules.  
1\. Stay inside AT ALL TIMES after 10:00 at night. Stay lawful, stay out of his way.  
2\. If you go out with The Them, when and where are to be told to me or Aziraphale. (Who would then text me.)  
3\. Brian's house is too far unless you get a ride back.  
4\. The best place for you to be is at Pepper's house. Try to be there as often as possible.  
5\. NEVER go directly to The House.  
6\. ALWAYS stop at Aziraphale's and make certain that I have already left for the night. Do not, under ANY circumstances, go to The House unless I am there first."

Adam had agreed when Crowley had whispered the rules to him before they went to sleep that same night. He knew that with everything that Crowley went through so that he didn't have to, there was little he wouldn't agree to.

This was The Plan. Every night, Adam would ring Aziraphale's doorbell. Either Crowley would open the door and invite him in, or he would swing his jacket over his shoulder and step out into the brisk night, grabbing Adam's bike and wheeling it along himself. On some rare occasions, Aziraphale would answer the door and explain that Crowley had gone home. Adam would thank him politely yet hurriedly and bike home as fast as he could, scared as to what punishment Crowley might be getting and wanting to be there for him when he stumbles into their room and collapses on his bed.

The Plan had worked for the last fours years. Crowley was as happy as one could be in his situation, he supposed. He had a best friend that never judged him when he took off his jacket and revealed the bruises underneath, or when he freaked out and nearly had a panic attack because Adam hadn't gotten in touch to say he was staying at Wensleydale's until one in the morning. (Boy, had he been in trouble for that one.) He had a place to escape and someone to look after. (As well as someone to look after him.) 

What more could he really ask for?


	2. The Morning

Crowley stared up at the ceiling of his room, tracing the cracks that ran along like spider webs as he listened to the sound of Adam snoring and the faint twitter of a lonely bird outside the splintered window. It was freezing, the heat had broken in their room weeks ago but he'd be damned if he told his father. So as he shivered underneath his layer of blankets, he thought of school.

School was the part of Crowley's life that he never really thought about much, so this was slightly surprising. Well, he supposed he should say his schooling. (Adam's grades were something that he dwelled on quite a lot.)

He just never really had the ability to do well in school. It was that he wasn't incredibly smart, not like Aziraphale, who read Shakespeare in his free time. Aziraphale was put on the fast-track to success practically before he could walk, and as much as Crowley might have tried to learn early on, he found himself left behind in the matter of academics.

He had made his peace with that long ago. He had been labeled as a troubled kid (despite the fact that all he'd done was punch a kid in the nose for making fun of Aziraphale) forever.

Despite all this, he didn't really mind school, he decided. It was safe there, relatively speaking, and he knew exactly where Adam was. Aziraphale was there, and even if they didn't have many classes together, he always enjoyed lunches and the breaks where he would meet Aziraphale at his locker. No matter what, that was his one complete constant in his life. It was perhaps the easiest part of The Plan.

The alarm buzzed quietly when it read 5:30, shaking him out of his stupor. He reached one arm out from its hiding place and switched it off before taking a deep breath and sitting up.

His back twinged painfully from the events of the day before, but he paid it no mind as he nudged Adam, who was curled up on the other side of the bed.

His voice barely above a whisper, he gently poked the younger boy in the ribs. "Rise and shine, Adam." The boy groaned tiredly before burying himself deeper under his blanket mound. Crowley chuckled softly. "C'mon, Adam. You'll be late for school." Adam relented, poking his head out and sticking his tongue out at Crowley, who rolled his eyes and got out of bed, looking around the small room that was littered with various articles of clothing. 

He pulled out the first pair of black jeans and a black shirt from a pile in the corner, pausing to turn and make sure Adam was getting up before he went to change. The boy gave him a tired thumbs up and Crowley headed to the bathroom.

This was another part of The Plan, he supposed. Crowley often didn't sleep for as long as Adam, and thus he was always awake before the alarm. It was set as quiet as possible so as not to disturb his father. He would then wake Adam and get into the bathroom before the younger boy because he was usually faster at getting ready. He would shower and dress in under ten minutes, leaving Adam twenty to be out the door. They would leave before 6:00, when his father awoke to go to his 8:00-4:00 job. They would go to Aziraphale's and try to sleep until it was time to go to school.

He stepped out of the shower, changing quickly before risking a glance in the mirror. His appearance drastically changed at least once a year, each time usually radically different than the last. There was no real reason for this change in style, except for the fact that he took whatever the thrift store had on the shelves. Currently his hair was cut rather short, the fiery mop messily styled upwards. He dressed in all black, something that didn't really change at all. He wore a slim silver chain around his neck. He reached up an touched the necklace, smiling fondly. Aziraphale had given it to him.

They had been going through a rather rough patch a rather long while ago. They hadn't talked in days, and yet it had been Crowley's birthday. At the time he was constantly wearing cheap, tacky jewelry that was more often than not plastic that was spray-painted gold or silver. He had not gotten anything for his birthday, nor did he expect to. Even Adam had forgotten, too excited about something Crowley doesn't remember. 

Disheartened, Crowley had expected to muddle through his day Aziraphale-less and feeling utterly alone in the universe. He had been completely caught off guard when Aziraphale had stormed up to him, shoved a sleek black box in has face, and muttered a happy birthday. He opened the box hesitantly, blanking at the delicate chain inside. It was real silver. Simple but no doubt expensive. Aziraphale had remembered. Needless to say, when Crowley attacked the blonde with a hug later that day, their problems were quickly remedied.

He wandered back to the present, running a quick hand through his hair.

The redhead slipped out of the bathroom, opening the bedroom door and nodding at Adam, who got up and ran in. As he toweled his hair dry, he chanced a look at the time.

5:55. Shit.

He must have zoned out. 

This gave Adam five minutes to be ready. Four minutes. Shit. He felt his breath starting to come quicker, but forced himself to stay calm. Panicking wouldn't help anything. He began to pace, scratching his arm subconsciously as he tried to breathe normally. Adam appeared three minutes later, his jacket half off and his shoes untied, but ready to leave. Crowley immediately grabbed his backpack and his jacket and rushed Adam and himself out the door, closing it behind him and taking a deep breath. Adam glanced at him, probably to make sure he wasn't having a panic attack. Once he found what he was looking for they picked up Adam's bike off the dirt they called a lawn and set off down the street.

"Crowley?" Adam said after a moment of walking in silence, and when the redhead looked at him he saw guilt on his face and they both came to a stop.

"What? What's wrong?"

"I forgot my backpack." Crowley tensed and checked the time. 6:01. Of course it was. He took another deep breath and looked back at The House.

"Alright. Alright, fine. That's fine. I'll go get it. You keep going, I'll bring it to you at Zira's."

Adam's face pulled into a concerned expression that no 9 year old should be able to make. "But, Crowley-"

Crowley cut him off. "Go. Now. I'm not asking."

Adam's mouth slammed shut and anger flickered in his eyes before he turned back to the sidewalk and stormed off.

Crowley sighed, forcing himself back down the street.

He pushed open the door, his heart rate spiking at the figure hunched over on the rickety barstool.

As quietly as he could manage it, he slipped into their room and grabbed the backpack.

Just when he had thought his father was too hungover to hear him, a gruff voice called out behind him.

"Goin' somewhere, boy?"

Crowley's defenses immediately came up, every fiber of his being in flight or fight.

"Yep. School. Ya know, it's the law. I suppose you don't really care much about what is and isn't the law, though." He turned to face the man, watching anger well up on his unshaven face.

"How many times do I have to tell you? I will not be spoken to that way in MY OWN GODDAMNED HOME." He picked up the glass that had held his coffee and hurtled it at Crowley, who had just enough time to dodge as it smashed into the wall and shattered into pieces. The man paused for a moment before waving his hand at the mess anger still written all over his face. "Pick it up."

Crowley knew that fight was the wrong response in that situation, but he was in far too deep now. He stood where he was, unmoving out of fear or rebellion he couldn't tell, and stared at the mess.

"You deaf, boy? Pick. It. UP."

His father advanced on him, effectively sending him to the ground with a punch to the gut and a few clever moves that could only be known if you were an expert in the ways of abusing someone.

His father shoved his face closer to the mess, Crowley now struggling to keep his face off the shattered glass not even an inch from him.

"You understand me now? Pick. It. UP." Crowley felt the second he lost out, the shards pressing into his cheek, cutting into his face, and let out the smallest whimper of resignation, his father keeping him there for a moment longer before allowing him up.

Crowley brought a hand to his cheek, his fingers coming away red. His father kicked him, and he scrambled for the glass shards.

He was out of the house, Adam's backpack in hand, at 6:30. As he set off down the crumbling sidewalk, he did a self- assessment. The cuts on his face most definitely hurt like Hell. Every other pain was a dull throb, he could live with that. He felt exhausted and drained. In this state, he couldn't help but think of Aziraphale. Sweet, kind, perfect Aziraphale. He was not going to be happy.

Aziraphale had seen him in various similar states before, but each time he scolded and chastised Crowley for being so careless. So willing to face abuse that he shouldn't have to. Crowley loved him for it.

Well, love in the platonic sense, of course. The redhead wasn't in love with his best friend. Of course not. No. He had too much on his plate to even think of it. Again, not that there was anything to think of. 

He was not in love.

As he neared the place he had last left Adam, he saw him sitting on the curb, throwing rocks at the dog across the street.

"Hey, that's enough now. How would you like it if someone threw rocks at you?" Crowley sauntered up, dropping the ripped backpack next to Adam.

Adam jumped up at the same time, hugging Crowley tightly.

"Woah, woah, hey. I have a reputation to maintain." He said, and as Adam pulled back he saw tear tracks on the boy's face. He immediately dropped down so that he was face-to-face with his nephew, a hand on each of his arms. "Are you okay? What's wrong? Did something happen?"

Adam shook his head, his eyes turned down, and mumbled, "'m sorry."

Crowley smiled a sad smile. "Why are you sorry?"

"I know he's in a worse mood in the mornings and I made you go back for my backpack." He whispered, looking incredibly guilty.

Crowley shook his head profusely. "It's not your fault. I took too long getting ready. If it's anyone's fault, it's mine."

Adam looked at him and nodded, albeit a little reluctantly. Satisfied, Crowley stood up, stretching before picking up Adam's bike, handing it over when he reached for it.

They walked in a companionable silence. The crisp air was refreshing, clearing his head even as the breeze carried a chill down his spine. It stung the fresh cuts on the side of his face, but he was trying not to think of that. The cold had always been difficult for Crowley. Cold meant staying inside. It meant less places to go when things got out of control. Luckily, the winter was slowly giving way to spring and those suffocating months were nearly behind him.

Adam was still glancing at him frequently, the worry not completely gone. He chose to ignore it, and Adam chose not to say anything.

There wasn't much to say.

The sun was beginning to rise as they came up to Aziraphale's house. Crowley could see the warm, inviting light inside the elegant house.

As they reached the steps up to the house the door flew open, Aziraphale coming into view.

"There you are. I was getting worried. You were supposed to be here half an hour ago. You're always here by 6:30. Always."

Crowley smiled slightly. "It's fine, Zira." Adam dumped his bike on the front lawn, slipping past Aziraphale into the house.

Crowley watched him go, relaxing slightly, glad to be... well, home. The House was The House. A place to sleep. This was his home.

"Crowley." Aziraphale's stern voice drifted into his ears, and he saw the disappointment in his face. He didn't have to guess why.

He covered his face with his hand, wincing a little yet trying to act completely casual. "It's nothing. Not really. I'm fine."

"It is something, and you're to come inside and let me look at it." Aziraphale huffed, grabbing his arm and yanking him inside.

Adam was already curled up on the couch, and as they passed by Crowley told him to be ready to go in 30 minutes. 

As he was being pulled up the stairs by his rather bossy friend, they passed by Mrs. Fell.

"Oh, good. You turned up. I'm assuming your brother is downstairs?" She asked, though Crowley wasn't entirely sure if it was a question. He decided to nod just to be safe, and she offered him a tight smile in return. Mrs. Fell was never openly rude, the Fells weren't a blatant type of people. Her disdain was always close to the surface though, barely masked by a picket fence of pleasantries. No matter what he did, he knew that his friend's mother would see him as a bad influence above anything else.

They had made it to Aziraphale's bathroom, and said blonde sat him down on the toilet lid before digging around in his supply closet.

"You don't have to go through all this trouble, you know." Crowley said as he followed the movements of his friend. "I'll manage just fine."

Aziraphale hummed. "You're definition of "managing just fine" worries me, Crowley." A pause, a little more shuffling, and an "Ah-ha!" As Aziraphale pulled the alcohol off of the shelf.

Crowley didn't have any rebut, so he stayed quiet. 

Aziraphale came back to Crowley, dousing a cotton ball in alcohol before lifting it to Crowley's face. Crowley sucked in a breath as it made contact, flinching back minutely.

Aziraphale huffed, "Oh, hush. If you were going to go and get hurt you should have known that I was going to go and fix you up."

Crowley winced once more as the blonde continued. "I'll have to be less careful in the future." He smirked as Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

When he was close to done, Aziraphale, eyes focused on the right side of Crowley's face, finally whispered the words Crowley knew he would eventually. "What happened this time?"

He shrugged, suddenly finding the small tear in the crease of his left shoe rather interesting. "Adam forgot his backpack."

He nodded, knowing not to press the matter or Crowley, he simply disposed of the cotton ball and turned around. "You'll be fine for school, probably." He said, leaning against the door of the bathroom as he studied his friend.

"They gave up caring a long time ago. I could be on fire, and they'd think it's something to do with the weather." Crowley grinned, pulling himself up. "Right, then. Off we go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! I have a direction for this story but there's a lot of ground to cover.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	3. Anathema

They were always a sight to behold, strolling down the street to the elementary school with flowers painted on the windows and teachers chatting with parents. 

First there was Crowley, dressed in black skinny jeans and a leather jacket, who always looked slightly intoxicated with each swing of his hips. Then there was Aziraphale, always in a dress shirt and respectable pants, posture perfect and smiling kindly at every stranger they passed. And finally Adam, wheeling his bike along in front of the two polar opposites. Something about them was so unsettling, as if they didn't belong together but the pieces fit anyway. Crowley was too paranoid, Aziraphale too charming. Cold eyes scanned around at every moment, while kind invited a person for pleasant conversation. They cancelled each other out in a rather discomforting manner, while Adam seemed to be both at the same time.

They were the reason people glanced down at their purses or patted their back pocket for their phones. They were the reason that parents escorted their child (of what age made no difference) to the door of the classroom.

They knew this about themselves, and they wore it proudly. They stayed their course, uncaring as they talked and smiled.

They dropped Adam off from afar, watching him give a final wave from the entrance before continuing on their way.

It was at this point that the side of Crowley that truly shone when he was with Aziraphale would show its first signs of fading.

His shoulders would tense slightly, and his sunglasses would be fished out of his jacket and pushed onto his nose. Besides this, his general attitude stayed the same. 

As the school came into view in the distance, however, he would become more withdrawn. He would stop interjecting thoughts and opinions, becoming wary. Aziraphale knew not to mention this, as it was not voluntary. Crowley tried his best to act like he was unaffected, and to anyone else he was. But not to Aziraphale. He knew better. This time, he knew, was incredibly vulnerable. If he said one wrong thing, Crowley would lash out and slink away. 

When this did happen he wouldn't see Crowley for the rest of the day. The other wouldn't meet Aziraphale during passing period, would avoid him in the halls at lunch. Aziraphale would give up at this point, muddling through the rest of his day until he inevitably went home alone.

Aziraphale would bury himself in homework rather than thinking of it, and sometime later the doorbell would ring. Crowley stood on the other side when he opened it. His eyes were filled with panic and barely contained tears as his shoulders shook and he stumbled through a rushed apology. Aziraphale's heart broke every time.

So, he kept talking. The talk had to be about simple, unimportant things so that Crowley didn't have to listen as he mentally prepared himself for the day ahead. He would begin with something simple yet specific, often the first thing that he saw, and just start talking.

As he continued to talk, the tension slowly bled from Crowley's shoulders. He would visibly unwind as he listened-but-not-really to Aziraphale.

By the time they got to the doors, he would be School Crowley. Not a very original name, but it was the part of his friend that Aziraphale tried not to dwell on. 

As he pushed open the door, Crowley looked at him and raised his eyebrow. "Out of the frying pan." He muttered, the second before his voice fell among the masses.

Crowley always walked Aziraphale to his Honors Literature class before going to his own, his need to know that the important people in his life were safe taking precedence.

As soon as they had arrived Crowley bade him farewell and disappeared into the crowd.

Aziraphale quite enjoyed his studies. He enjoyed the sense of sophistication that his classes possessed, though he struggled to find them as interesting when Crowley wasn't looking over his shoulder, always curious but never having the time to invest himself. He would always put Adam's wellbeing before his own.

A few of his classmates that he considered to be his acquaintances entered the room. They took their seats next to Aziraphale's, though they didn't address him more than a vague nod.

There was Gabriel, the ring leader, and there were Michael and Uriel, his loyal companions. It was unlikely to see one without the rest. They were not alone, many others often joined them, but those three were always the ones calling the shots. Crowley called them The Angels, as did the rest of the school, he supposed.

Despite what people thought of them, how smart and good they were, they did love to gossip. They looked down on everyone, and had no problem expressing it as long as the subject wasn't within earshot. "Rumor has it that Anathema's been dumped. Again. One would think that girl would have figured out that no boy likes her for more than a romp in the sack." 

Aziraphale felt a spike of pity for Anathema. She was a beautiful girl, but she was... odd. Always saying things that didn't come out quite right, always correcting people about things that didn't matter. She spent so much of her life reading books she forgot how to be a part of her own story.

Class started and ended without circumstance, and Aziraphale bid a minute farewell to The Angels before making his way out the door and down the corridor. 

He always kept an eye out for Crowley in the halls, even though he knew their paths rarely crossed during the school day. The only time he did see the redhead was at lunch. He wished that his friend would just put a little more effort in—no. That wasn’t fair of him, and he knew it. Crowley did the best he could, and it wasn’t his fault that the public education system was failing him so terribly.

He was halfway to his next class when he had to cut his self-berating short. Someone was crying in room 22B. That classroom had been empty for as long as Aziraphale had gone there, and he doubted that a member of the faculty was having a breakdown in there. 

The immediate instinct was to throw open the door and hug the first person he saw, but decided that wasn’t the best option rather quickly. His second instinct was to open it tentatively, letting anyone inside compose themselves before he was completely in the room, but he hesitated on this, too. Surely if they were trying to be alone he shouldn’t disturb their moment? Or should he, since maybe they needed someone to do just that? Was it his place to say? What if it were Crowley, could he take that chance?

As the soft crying continued, he decided he wouldn’t forgive himself if he walked away. Aziraphale pushed open the door and peeked inside.

The figure startled when they heard the noise. Sat on a dusty desk at the back of the classroom was a raven-haired girl. Anathema, the poor thing, looked absolutely wrecked.

“Oh, dear, Anathema! Are you alright?” 

“Aziraphale?” She wiped her nose with her sleeve and shifted uncomfortably. “Wh-what are you doing in here?”

He approached the girl slowly, trying not to startle her. “I heard crying. I thought something might be, well, wrong.” 

The girl shook her head. “N-no, no I’m alright.”

He obviously knew that the girl wasn’t fine, so he pulled the look he only used when he wanted Crowley to tell him the same information.

She sighed. “Why c-can’t I just f-find a nice guy? Is there something wrong with me?”

He pitied the girl, he knew she just wanted someone to sweep her off her feet. She couldn’t even realize her own worth.

He sat one the desk across from hers, folding his hand in his lap. “Anathema, I think you should listen very carefully. You’re a wonderful girl, and no boy is going to make you realize that. You have to love yourself, and only then can you look for love in others. Your Prince Charming is out there, if you still wish for him, but you need to find yourself first.”

She gave him an odd look, one he wasn’t sure he could decipher, but in the end she nodded and smiled. “Thanks Aziraphale.”

He nodded, hopping off the desk and walking to the door. “If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.” He didn’t wait for an answer before walking out the door and hurrying to his next class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is mainly just plot development for later sorry it’s not very interesting. Thanks for reading!


End file.
